What ‘if’ isn’t hesitating? Those like us who burn in a midst of already
forgotten proclivities?
The memory of a worm at the level of a shoe has more comprehension than
a human brain today. It’s a flying bird sitting upon a tree branch. At the
level of a statue whose computer rages within a digital age of phosphorization
of Elon’s satellites. The color of these glasses are pink in love or torrid lightning
As salt and pepper are tastes of a nutrition of alerts like napkin furniture
Historically the retreat of pastures who view a burning fire with their relentless
disinfecting tongues as swords of hate are the future — like pristine advisors
of death where retro doors are seen
I adore the reddish pillows like Koi fish which my head sleeps upon dreaming new
worlds as they cut waves with ciphered.
I am who I am.
:: 10.12.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 